


Clima

by Papaveri



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:11:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4987858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papaveri/pseuds/Papaveri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forde needs a moment after Renvall. Cool down, pick up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clima

He shifts his weight from one leg to another, waiting for his breath to become steady again, with his right hand on the side of the neck of the horse and his left hand still holding the spear.

A jolt of pain surges from his calf when he moves. Forde has a bittersweet relationship with the moment right after a battle ends: air that feels to warm for his lungs, the start, but never the realization, of a tremor in his fingers and the sudden demand of attention from his body. The signs of exhausted (but living) muscles.

And when he's wandered too far from the team, there's also the heavy, damp silence; this time it's something so big it forces him to close his eyes and lean on his spear, and blood drips from the cut a stray arrow opened on his lip, uncomfortably close.

( _It was four of us. Four of us_. His hand opens and closes again on the shaft of the spear).

When he manages to wipe the worst of his wound clean, there come the steps, the final sign. When he sees Kyle, he feels he can speak again.

“And here I thought you had left me behind!,” he says. He smiles and from the way Kyle's eyebrows knit together, Forde guesses his teeth must be red. There's an odd satisfaction in that, even though unlike others he's never thought of scars as medals.

(Because it's going to scar; if he was more of a writer, he could work something about war always on his lips, but instead he runs the back of his hand against his mouth again. It stings a bit, the way his skin catches on itself).

And Kyle winces when he gets down his horse, the shadow of blood seeping through the black clothing, but he doesn't limp. For a second Forde even thinks he's going to punch him.

He doesn't; he just grabs his arm with a grip so tight it must have left a mark.

(Forde can still feel something of the warm pain Kyle's hand left on his wrist before the battle, like a bracelet that faded into his flesh; his eyes dart to his arm and then to Kyle's face again).

“Don't, don't wander about on your own. Stars above, when I can't see you I think of all the times I've caught you _half-asleep_ on—”

“Oh, but Ephraim's even worse!,” the name of the prince still tastes a bit weird on his mouth, but that must be the blood. “I'm good on my own, see. But this time,” he has to wipe his lips again, “don't make me argue too much because it's a _bit_ painful.”

Forde can see how Kyle bites back a sentence and turns it into a sigh, words melting into air. And for a second he wishes he had spoken instead, because then the silence makes itself clear again so fast, pushing him against the weight of Kyle's hand on his elbow like the heaviest blessing, against the way relief is so apparent in his eyes, relief and a spark of frustration as warm as the fireplace back home.

(They've kissed before, one or three or six times, fast and painless like pulling a thorn out of the paw of a lion, on the shoulder when there wasn't time for a “please stay safe” or when he felt he needed to plant the wish on him directly, like a charm. But this time there's a warning: a hand on the curve of his neck and shoulder, because of course Kyle's the type to ask him to close his eyes).

It does sting; on his pride too, when he notices Kyle has to crouch a little bit. And it tastes mostly of dust and iron, and the pain comes back through him when his body relaxes (it twists his smile, it opens the cut on his lips even more), but Kyle's hand goes from his neck to his cheek to the back of his head, it draws a line from his small cuts and it makes him shudder.

(Forde opens his eyes just to see him for a second, because he's drawn him several times and if his hands didn't know the shape of his face they're learning it now, fingers lingering on the sharp turn of his jaw; but he needs to know, he needs to know the important details, the shade of the clean skin of hiseyelids).

When Kyle pulls back his hands are back again on his shoulders, heavy and chaste, but Forde feels the urge of drawing his thumb over his mouth (wiping the blood from there too; another weird shudder, a sudden need to swallow). He just leaves his hand where it is, though.

Still, calm. Over warmth.

“Next time wait until I'm healed, man,” he says. “Let me believe there's time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> When I started working on this I was reading a book called "The shortest kiss ever registered". I finished the book like a week ago, which is a testament to my writing speed now that I'm working full time.
> 
> This was inspired by darling Rowan asking me about Forde/Kyle! I think it's one of the very rare things I've written where I've tried to go for calm and clean because I usually feel I get corny really fast. On the title, 'clima' means 'climate' in Spanish, and it's a nice short word I thought fit better than the English one. 
> 
> It /is/ short, but I hope you liked it! Now that I'm completely un-blocked, I'll try to be more productive around here.


End file.
